


The Book of Little Tales

by Sigridhr



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F, F/M, all the lady loving, kinkmeme fills, weird blend of bad prose and porn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 15:07:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1351873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sigridhr/pseuds/Sigridhr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fills from <a href="http://silmarillionkinkmeme.dreamwidth.com">The Silmarillion Kink Meme</a>. </p>
<p>1. Elemmírë/Findis - flirting and poetry.<br/>2. Aredhel/Nerdanel - seduction.<br/>3. Anairë/Nerdanel - touch.<br/>4. Míriel - darkness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And Still Sweeter On My Tongue

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt was: both ladies courting each other through poetry or song.

The light of Telperion filters in through the open window, but it’s the sound of the harp that wakes Findis. It’s quiet, Elemmírë’s fingers barely touch the strings and are little louder than the scratching of her quill as she makes notes.   
  
Findis smiles, warm beneath the covers where Elemmírë’s leg still presses gently against her side. She rolls over, and Elemmírë looks down at her, equal parts startled and rueful, her back resting against the headboard and her harp cradled in her lap. Findis can’t help but reach up and trace the line of her jaw, run her fingers over Elemmírë’s lips, as her golden hair brushes the back of Findis’ fingers gently – a sensation that always echoes on her skin even long after they’ve parted.   
  
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Elemmírë says softly, her breath ghosting across Findis’ palm.   
  
“What are you writing?” Findis moves closer, letting her hand fall and her arm wrap comfortably around Elemmírë’s waist.   
  
Elemmírë laughs, and turns over the parchment spread upon the bed in a way that makes Findis instantly suspicious.   
  
“It’s just a silly tune,” she says.   
  
Findis sits up, kicking the covers aside and straddling Elemmírë’s legs. She rests her hands on Elemmírë’s harp and says, “a silly tune about  _what_?”   
  
To Findis’ utter delight, Elemmírë blushes. She makes a quick grab for the parchment, hoping to get it while she’s distracted, but she’s not quite quick enough. Elemmírë shoves them off the bed and grabs Findis around the waist, pulling her awkwardly into an embrace that has her harp digging into Findis’ ribs.  
  
“Play it,” Findis says, breathlessly. She leans forward, kissing the tip of Elemmírë’s ear and delighting in the way that it makes Elemmírë’s fingers clench tight against the skin of her hip. “I want to hear it.”   
  
“It’s not finished,” says Elemmírë. “And it is… inadequate.”   
  
Findis gives her a flat look. “You have never once written anything ‘inadequate’.”   
  
She’s not quite sure how to interpret the look Elemmírë gives her in return, though she has the impression that she’s said something exasperating. Elemmírë puts the harp aside, placing it carefully beside the bed.   
  
“Oh, I can make the court of Ingwë weep,” says Elemmírë, her voice taking on the same lyric quality she uses when she recites, and Findis feels her skin break out in goosebumps. “With a single song. I have played for the Valar, and been praised for my art by those whose song shaped the world.”   
  
Abruptly, she manages to roll Findis beneath her, and, settling herself between Findis’ legs she pressing her hips down. “But when it comes to  _this_ ,” she says, softly, “I find myself utterly without words.”   
  
Then, Elemmírë leans down and kisses her, and Findis hears half-remembered music that pulled her from sleep, a line of notes that moves as quickly and deftly as Elemmírë’s fingers do across her skin and she feels her heart beat in time.   
  
“When you capture it,” Findis says, running her hand up the inside of Elemmírë’s thigh and brushing her thumb across her clit so that Elemmírë gasps, leaning forward and gripping the headboard tight. “It, too, will make the court of Ingwë weep.”   
  
Elemmírë laughs. “Likely because it will be drivel.” She presses her forehead against Findis’. “You render me insensate.”   
  
“Perhaps,” says Findis, rubbing her thumb in quick even circles as Elemmírë grinds her hips down. Elemmírë is flushed, and her hands seem to be trying to be everywhere at once, clutching at Findis, all trace of deftness gone as her words fade into quiet, needy gasps.   
  
Elemmírë comes with a soft sound, sagging forward and pressing her lips to the crook of Findis’ neck.   
  
“Then do not sing anything at all,” Findis says, running her fingers through Elemmírë’s hair. “The world knows what skill you have with a harp, but I am content that we alone know what skill I have with you.” 


	2. Subtlety

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was: Aredhel is fasciated by Nerdanel, and even though trying to get with your buddies' mother is difficult to justify, she still tries to get closer to Nerdanel, using all of the limited experience she has as a only recently adult woman to get her attention.
> 
> Nerdanel sees right through her, but instead of putting a stop to the younger woman's advances right away, she starts to get interested in her halfbrother-in-law's daughter too...
> 
> Bonus Points if Nerdanel decides to teach Aredhel a thing or two :X

**i.**  
  
Irissë is not a creature of subtlety – she makes loud demands, and her voice seems to fill up empty space with the weight of her presence. But for all that, it does start out quietly, with glances that dart away as soon as Nerdanel catches them, and a gaze that seems to follow her, silently pressing at her skin with all the earnest desire of youth.   
  
Irissë hovers in doorways, indecisive only in this, though it is clear to Nerdanel that Irissë knows exactly what she wants. Nerdanel can’t help thinking that surely she was never so young and foolish.   
  
 **ii.**  
  
There are days when Nerdanel thinks that her children have nothing of her in them, for surely no child of hers could possibly be so utterly oblivious to the way that Irissë stands just slightly too close, and stares overlong as they sit by the fire – the only one in the room not looking at Macalaurë as he sings.   
  
Nerdanel’s skin is flushed from the warmth of the hearth, but Irissë’s gaze burns brighter and longer, and she can’t quite force it from her mind, even as Fëanáro breathes her name reverently into her hair, his hips stuttering against hers.   
  
 **iii.**  
  
Tyelko–reckless, self-centred Tyelko, who prides his skills but lacks the keenness of Fëanáro’s gaze–is utterly clueless. Nerdanel can’t help but think of him still as a child, though he’s long grown beyond the cradle of her arms, and she wonders what he would make it of it all. She is afraid that he might find out.  
  
But Irissë has no such qualms, at least to judge by the way her fingers are circling Nerdanel’s wrist, brushing gently at her skin with a promise in her eyes that Nerdanel thinks she is too young to know how to keep.   
  
 **iv.**  
  
“You are playing with fire,” says Nerdanel.   
  
Irissë laughs. “If I wished to play with fire, it would be your husband that tempted me.”   
  
Nerdanel gives her a long, flat look. “You are much too young for this game, Irissë. You do not yet know how it is played.”   
  
“I know enough.”   
  
Oddly, of everyone, it is Fëanáro that is reminded of, who was always unafraid of his own limitations, setting his sights beyond them until he’d carved them anew.   
  
It’s the look on her face–stubborn and smug–that makes Nerdanel grab her roughly and press their lips together.   
  
 **v.**  
  
Irissë is uncoordinated and fumbling, so unlike the way Fëanáro knows every inch of her skin almost better than she does, and it is exhilarating. There is an artless earnestness to the way Irissë practically trembles under her touch, and a single flick of Nerdanel’s thumb over her nipple has Irissë’s knees nearly give out.   
  
Nerdanel wastes no time in pushing her back against the workbench.   
  
Irissë’s fingers skitter over her face, her breasts, and into her hair, and she looks wide-eyed and breathless, struck with the sudden fulfilment of her desire and uncertain precisely what to do with it.   
  
 **vi.**  
  
It’s the look on her face–the first time Irissë hasn’t looked smug about this in  _weeks_ –that has Nerdanel dropping to her knees in front of her, letting Irissë’s legs rest over her shoulders.   
  
“Is this not what you wanted?” Nerdanel says, her open mouth brushing against the skin on the inside of Irissë’s thigh, and Irissë’s hands clench painfully in her hair. She pauses then, sitting back and looking up at her. “Do you wish me to stop?”   
  
“If you do, I’ll kill you,” says Irissë in an attempt to be imperious, and Nerdanel can’t help but laugh.   
  
 **vii.**  
  
Irissë makes the most extraordinary noises, like her laugh and her self-assured taunting, she is unabashed even in this. Nerdanel is quieter by nature, but no less self-assured (for to find herself in the house that has always been considered Fëanáro’s she had first to learn to recognize herself), and her tongue is deft enough that Irissë can no longer be smug.   
  
She wants to carve this moment–Irissë undone–, as she once captured the face of Fëanáro in stone. And Irissë comes apart, her heels digging into Nerdanel’s back and her moan shockingly loud, and Nerdanel feels victorious.   
  
 **viii.**  
  
“You’re beautiful,” Irissë says, breathlessly, sliding off the bench and into Nerdanel’s lap in a boneless heap, pressing a sloppy kiss to Nerdanel’s mouth. “I want…”   
  
“You want more than I can give,” says Nerdanel. “And more than you should take.”   
  
Irissë goes still, and Nerdanel can sense her priming for an argument. Nerdanel sighs, running her hands gently through Irissë’s hair. “There will be others.“   
  
“I don’t  _want_  others,” says Irissë sulkily. “Others do not make me feel the way you do.”   
  
“Perhaps not now, but you are young, and the world is full of people with deft tongues.”   
  
 **ix.**  
  
Irissë’s hands are moving again, pulling Nerdanel’s dress off her shoulders. “I see you when other’s don’t,” she says.   
  
Nerdanel lets her clothes fall down to her waist, lets Irissë take her breast into her mouth. Irissë’s fingers fumble, rucking her skirt up and pressing against her clit. Nerdanel covers them with her own, guiding them to where she wants them and grinding her hips down.   
  
Irissë watches her steadily, her fingers slowly beginning to find the rhythm. “I think about you all the time,” she says.   
  
Nerdanel wants to wipe the earnestness off her face. Instead she says, “harder.”   
  
 **x.**  
  
There is something about foreign touch that sets her skin alight, the unfamiliarity of Irissë’s movements, the way her kisses land on patches of skin long forgotten, and her body is rewritten anew by her desire. In the end, Nerdanel comes, clutching at the back of Irissë’s head, her cry half-swallowed by a messy kiss, and she can’t bring herself to regret it, consequences be damned.   
  
But Irissë still stands too close, and her touch burns at the dinner table as they make quiet conversation. Irissë still watches, and she can feel the echo of her touch on her skin.   
  
 **xi.**  
  
They are not lovers, she tells herself, even as she mumbles instructions to Irissë, whose head is bent low between her legs. But increasingly she can think of little else, and she has begun to track Irissë’s presence through the house, her skin prickling when she is near as if her body has begun a new alignment. Irissë’s hands are small and soft, and yet she feels the impressions they leave deep beneath her skin like a brand.   
  
Irissë’s presence has filled what empty space remained in her house, and, it would seem, she has done the same to Nerdanel. 


	3. Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was: touch.

It is mid-afternoon when Nerdanel drags Anairë into her studio, and presents her with a likeness of herself so real her first instinct is to recoil. The shape of her face is precise, and the expression is open and thoughtful, pieces of Anairë that suddenly feel incredibly personal, so that she's almost embarrassed to see them put in stone. But it is cold under her touch, and there is no heartbeat.   
  
"What do you think?" Nerdanel asks.   
  
"I didn't know you were working on this," Anairë says, still running her hands over the perfectly smooth cheeks of her doppelgänger.   
  
Nerdanel is watching her carefully, and Anairë is struck at once by how often she's seen that precise look and made little of it at the time.   
  
"What do you see?" Nerdanel asks, at last.   
  
Anairë lets her hands fall, taking a step backwards. "I think you give me too much credit," she says. "It  _is_  me, but with a face slightly more beautiful, an expression kinder and wiser, and a shape slightly more desirable."   
  
Nerdanel laughs. "You think it's  _flattery_?"  
  
Anairë turns to stare at her, but Nerdanel is grinning ruefully, and simply reaches out to cup Anairë's warm, real cheeks.   
  
"I have been lauded for my work because I do not flatter, I capture." Nerdanel's hands brush slowly over her cheeks, thumbs callused from her work. "And I keep it for myself."   
  
The statue is implacable, remote and beautiful in a way Anairë feels she will never reach, and she is trapped, pinned like a butterfly, between Nerdanel's hands, pieces of hers she was unaware she had given fitted together to create a puzzle that was more than the sum of her parts.   
  
And yet Nerdanel's hands are warm on her skin, and her own fingers are still chilled from the statue.


	4. Resolute

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was: darkness and light.

There is a quiet hollowness that dulls the sound of Finwë's halls that seems to bleed from her skin, dampening the world around her with a grim haze she can't get out of. Nevertheless, the celebration of the birth of their son continues unimpeded around them by the doom Míriel knows has already come upon her. Her hands are heavy, even as Finwë takes them in hers and squeezes them, and she cannot even hold her child unaided.   
  
She's aware that she ought to care more, but even the effort of that awareness seems almost too much for her to take in. He is a quiet child, and his eyes watch her and she wonders if the clarity of thought that now slips through her fingers has gone entirely into him as well, and if he knows it.  
  
The truth is, she can barely stand the touch of Finwë's hands on her skin; they are heavier than her own, and they way down her leadened body until she feels like she's drowning. HIs concern chafes at her, as her son chafes at the breasts she can barely get to produce milk, and in every respect she feels that life has tumbled beyond her control in ways that Finwë–for all his questions and his hovering–is utterly blind to.   
  
Her fingers fumble around needles, cloths shaking in hands that had once had as much precision as her tongue, now leaden, which cannot even articulate the helplessness she feels. Lórien is, in the end, her greatest comfort–not because she is healed, but because in dying, she is at last once more resolute.


End file.
